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She let out a cry as the current strengthened. In the first moment it stung, but then she adjusted to it. Her hips jerked with the stimulation, fingers clamping around the slats of the chair.
Yes, in a clinical way, the sheer physical manipulation could arouse her, no different from the solo use of her vibrator, but there were far more elements to this scenario, stoking her to higher levels than she'd experienced with something battery-operated. And it wasn't just the electrodes doing it.
She was wearing an outfit he'd ordered her to wear, was bound to a chair so he could watch her, indulge his own pleasure. The detachment he was demonstrating by watching the movie intensified her reaction, though she couldn't explain why. All of it ostensibly about him, yet in an amazing, confusing way one of the most erotic things she'd ever encountered. He'd been right; it wouldn't have mattered if he'd brought her favorite movie of all time. She wouldn't have heard a word of it.
Her hips couldn't stop twitching, because that electrical current had a gradual, building effect. Her upper body got involved, a sinuous roll. She dropped her head back and brought it back down, all of her as restless as if a tongue was stroking her between her legs, a hugely intense response blooming in her lower body and spreading out.
He'd been eating his popcorn; she could hear him crunching. Then he set the bowl on the side table. His palms molded around her breasts, his thumbs teasing over her nipples. She cried out, a near scream at that light touch.
"Ssshh. You'll interrupt the movie, baby. Be quiet, or I'll gag you."
She bit back on the moans, the whimpers, but it was so hard. The effort made things even more intense, which she was sure was his plan.
Behind her she heard dialogue, gunfire, seventies theme music . . . it all rolled into one blur of white noise. Her mind became like a video camera mounted in the corner of her living room, imagining what this looked like, a man sprawled out watching a movie, drinking beer--she smelled the faint flavor of hops from where he'd had his mouth on her breast--while she sat there, tied up, vulnerable, so turned on she couldn't stop herself from making these tiny cries and moans, whimpers that sounded a lot like pleas.
"Can't help being a bad girl, can you?"
Though she tried to protest, pull her head away, he coaxed open her mouth with unrelenting fingers, pushing a rubber phallic-shaped object into it. The thick and short gag held down her tongue and stretched her jaw. He buckled it around her head, caressing her jaw with his strong hands, soothing her. Imagining it like his cock in her mouth had her tonguing it, suckling it, her throat working before she was even cognizant of doing such a shameless thing.
"Christ, you can kill a man." His voice was a near growl, yet his hands left her. The gag muffled her wail of protest. He moved out of the chair and she heard him sink down on the nearby couch. Start eating the popcorn again. "There now. Don't want you interrupting the movie at a good part."
She would have called him a bastard, except for the gag and the undisguised rough lust in his voice.
It went on for what seemed like half the movie, well over an hour. She came so close to climax, so many times, but he was always aware of where she was at, that crazy combination of intense attention and seeming disinterest. The electric pulses died down or changed each time she was almost there. She wriggled, squirmed. At a certain point, the pleasurable stress brought forth tears.
When she was whimpering against the gag like a baby, unable to stop her continuous pleading, he turned down the volume, to the point she could hear her ceiling fan rotating. He came back to his chair, his legs against her again. That simple contact was enough to make her shudder. Unbuckling the gag, he slid it free, wiping the saliva around her lips, her chin, with a cloth. He gave her a few sips of water, then rose. She heard his chair scrape the wood floor as he moved it behind her. Her chair adjusted beneath her, and she guessed he'd hooked a foot in the slats beneath to bring her closer. He was sitting right behind her now.
"You asked me about my fantasies, Madison, but what I want to know are yours. Tell me. In your shop all day, surrounded by all those possibilities, what one fantasy belongs to you?" His voice was a mesmerizing purr. "When you're in your bed alone, touching yourself, wanting to give yourself an orgasm, what do you imagine the most often? Pretend you're there now, and my voice is your own mind. There's no wrong answer, no judgment."
Her mind was going in a hundred different directions. She could barely think. As his fingers slid along her nape, teasing that bone, she trembled, hard. Before that touch, her mind gave way, following the track he set for it, no resistance.
"I imagine . . . when I spread my legs, it's someone else spreading them, holding them down while he does . . . oral sex."
He pressed against her back, inner thighs brushing her hips. Sliding an arm around her, he put his knuckle against her pussy again. It interrupted the current with a startling quick shock, a light burn. She was so slick, it was easy to imagine his finger was a tongue. She jerked against the intimate caress, the play of that clever digit.
"
Are you in your bedroom or somewhere else?"
"I'm in . . . his bedroom. He . . . bought me." She blurted it out, whispered the rest. "Like at an auction."
"What kind of auction? Present day, or a long time ago? Here, or in a desert somewhere?"
She'd never told anyone about this fantasy. It was shameful, far beyond political correctness, the dictates of feminism . . . It was a deep dark secret, yet she found herself speaking out in the dark, as if telling the devil himself what her greatest temptations were.
"It's . . . here, now. One of those auctions where sheikhs buy virgins, like the Taken movie. Only we weren't kidnapped. We were raised, groomed to become someone's sex slave. Like Story of O." She gave a desperate half laugh. "It's like a dream, a mish-mash of things."
"That's fine. It's your fantasy. You can make it fit your own desires. What are you wearing at the auction?"
"Just a thong and a collar, attached by thin chains to nipple clamps, a clamp . . . down there."
"On your clitoris, or labia?"
"Clitoris. The chains are caught in the back . . . with a padlock. Before the auction, men come by, lift you to your knees by the chains, examine you."
"Rough men, men who frighten you, make you worry they'll be the one who buys you."
She nodded.
